Marlboros
by QuantumFizzx
Summary: Bella inherits a struggling farm she doesn't want & hires a quiet cowboy that appears to hate her. AH, M
1. Chapter 1 Prologue of sorts

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Twilight-related. Anything recognizable as Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer**

**A/N:** I wrote this as a one-shot. Then, I began to expand it. Things haven't worked out.  
I had a very distinct vision for how I wanted this to go. I wanted to have an older adult couple (not 20 somethings) rediscover a chance they thought long lost. I intended for Edward to be damaged and not talk much as a result. I figured that they both had tried to live lives without one another for over 20 years. I wanted to show how each was making not-so-ideal choices because the stars hadn't aligned for them, so to speak.  
I considered it an artistic choice not to announce/spoil that they did not start out together but rather were fully participating in other relationships and encounters with others. These encounters were integral to the plot I had in mind. Bella and the reader needed to witness him in order for the differences in his life to show as the story progressed.  
Not making it clear upfront that Edward and Bella would be with others in the beginning was not well-received by some readers. I do understand their feelings. Unfortunately, that was the story I had wanted to write and I had plenty of others say they did not want "spoiled." So, I made a call & I'm not sure it was the right one.  
Most everyone has been respectful and for that I am grateful.  
I apologize to anyone who read this with the thought that I would expand and elaborate. Whenever I think I'm ready to jump back in and write this thing, I see another review that expresses the hope that I am not doing PRECISELY what I planned to do with the plot. Even though I am a firm believer that one should write whatever one feels compelled to write, knowing that so many people truly don't want it really dents my motivation.

So, I leave this here because I really do feel like the one-shot/first chapter is a solid story.  
I leave the 2nd chapter up for kicks. Read it if you want. I'd be honored. At this time, however, I have no intention to write something that would upset so many.  
I hope you understand.  
Thank you,  
QFX 

**Marlboros **

These hardwood floors, run smooth by old-time whores, each with a tale ingrained.

(EPOV)

_I owed it to the old man._ That's what I kept telling myself.

I walk up the long drive, a letter folded in my left shirt pocket. It had been years since I'd made my way up this lane.

Swore I'd never come back.

Over the years, the gravel drive had ground down; most of it was now dust, sticking to the cracks of my boots, coating the creases, the thinnest layer at the points. The dust that didn't stick kicked up around me, hovering like the brown cloud still twisting behind the pick-up that had dropped me off here.

The wisdom of the one-way ride is waning.

_It's a long walk to town if the new owner doesn't take me on._

I'm not too concerned, though. They'd be downright stupid not to. No one else knew the place. No one else worked here; everyone's gone…one way or another.

A shadowed memory of a brown-eyed, young girl peaking up from a barrel invades my mind. She wears a huge white dress, her dark hair loose and tangled. She tries to get me to put down my shovel and look at new kittens.

I blink hard.

Like the gravel, worn down and nearly gone, so is this place.

Once a respectable little homestead, churning out real food, real work, real life…a generations old family operation, standing strong, as long as it could in changed times. Those times had changed again, this time in a small farm's favor. If the new owner needed help as much as the boys in town said, I had to believe it could happen.

I was going to save this place like it had saved me.

(BPOV)

Though they are deepest red, I treat them like gold. Cherry tomatoes in pint containers line the counter, the stove and the top of the deep freeze. These are the last crops grown from the last seeds sown. They are the last of my grandmother.

She, of course, didn't plant them, these heirloom seeds. She's been gone for a while. An executor I never met, ran the place for nearly a year, stripped it really, but he'd had enough and moved on. It had come to me now. It had been mine all along, but I never stepped up, because, well…I am not a farmer.

I know Jack crap about farming.

Until this time yesterday, I was still able to catch a few spare moments where I could pretend this wasn't my reality. It's been half my life, fifteen plus years ago, since I've set foot on this farm. The peeling paint on the windmill a sad reminder of what time does to us all. Gravity is a ruthless bitch; I sag as much as the old barn roof.

Until yesterday, I'd been able to take a deep breath and, for a few glorious minutes, fully envision myself back in my apartment, crystal highball half-full of whatever-I-so-choose in-hand, kicking off my heels at the end of the day.

This time yesterday, I lost that ability. Nothing special happened. Not as far as I could tell. Just - this all became real - inescapably real.

Everyone was gone, not that there were that many people in the first place. Mom, who I hadn't talked to since college: car crash years ago. Dad: line of duty. Grandpa: stroke. Gramma: broken heart six weeks later.

Everyone leaves. One way or another, everyone leaves.

And I'd given up everything left in my life to come here.

To come to this land, the place where my grandparents had met and stayed, until their dying days. The love they shared coated the place, saturated it, or it had always felt that way to me. An inexplicable aura of caring. I'd spent more time with them than my parents. My time on the farm was nearly without pain. Nearly. It was the only place I'd felt so safe…loved. The memory of a tall boy, an older boy, a forbidden boy, dances behind my eyes, dances across my lips, until the memory of being sent away chases him into the cold corners of my mind.

A hollow knock on the screen door startles me and I drop a tomato. It rolls under the edge of the freezer while I make for the door. When I'm a few feet away from it, I can see the person knocking.

I stop short.

He's standing to the side, apparently surveying the place. I can't see his face, just the tip of a new cigarette glowing beyond the brim of his hat. I note, appreciatively, that his belt buckle is standard issue rather than large enough to serve as a turkey platter next Thanksgiving.

He's wearing the norm. Jeans, snap front shirt, cowboy hat. It's how he's wearing them that stop me.

_Let him be here for the job. Oh, it won't last long, but the farm can go down in a blaze of glory._

The inner door is already open. I lean on its frame and speak to him through the rusted mesh of the screen.

"Hello. Did Billy send you?"

He shifts now, pulling his eyes off whatever he'd been accessing – be it the downed fence line, or the empty cutting garden – I do not know.

He's…_wow_. _Okay, I finally get it now, this whole rugged thing._

Varied degrees of tan color his complexion, weathered like a favorite, leather bag, wrinkles in the corners, the kind that only men make look good; creases born of back-breaking work, sun-soaked wisdom, and the strongest jawline I've ever seen.

Clouded green eyes lock on me, something unknown moving in their depths.

He says nothing. Just holds the cigarette tighter between his lips. He holds my gaze while he fishes an envelope from his shirt pocket.

Even from the shade inside the house, the wooden slats on the screen door are burning in the afternoon sun. I push the door open and take the folded envelope he offers. It's to the point.

"Well…Cullen is it? Billy has said you worked here before. I hope it wasn't recently. As you can see, the most recent caretakers did more take than care."

He nods. It seems like an agreement as a whole. I open the door and he lifts the bag and something larger leaning against the house, which I barely catch in my peripheral; he's brought a guitar.

Leading him down the hallway, I continue to avoid the closed door to my grandparents' room.

_I gave up everything to come here._

But, that's not true.

I'd given up on everything long before I ever came back.

(EPOV)

She's walking me down the hall, as if I don't know the way, as if I hadn't patched the walls and polished the floors here over the years…as if she doesn't know me.

But, then, she really doesn't.

"You may pick from either of these two rooms," she gestures toward the rooms on the left. I'd figured myself bunking back in my old room, but she stands against its door. I look from that doorway down to the closed master bedroom door.

She must see the question.

"That room is off limits." She looks down at the door to the old man's room. I swing my head back to the doorway of my old room. "And this is my room," she says, and pats the frame.

I notice her nails are shiny and red. I figure I truly don't know her anymore either.

"Is there a problem?" her voice is like bells, which bothers me. She's clearly irritated with my lingering in the hall, outside my old room, plus there's really no call for bells around here.

I purse my lips and shake my head once, as I haul my gear into the room behind me.

The orange sun is low in the west by the time I do the bare minimum of what needs to be done. It shouldn't be possible for one soul to run a place this size, but most of the fields still lie fallow, and there are only a few head now. The single, black horse seems to pretty much take care of itself. If we're…No, if she's going to make a go of it, we'd need to visit the stockyards. We'd need to plant more than whatever used to be in the house garden.

And so it continued this way for days. I'd haul my ass outta bed, do the chores, repair this, re-string that, and she'd managed to get a few regular folk to come and buy most of the milk. Tomorrow's the Farmer's Market in town. The cherry tomatoes she'd been working on must be meant for that.

I haven't seen her since I left the house earlier. I don't know how she thinks she can make a go of this if she spends all her time inside. I can picture her in front of the window unit with her feet up, conditioned air blowing directly on her, reading a book. This riles me. It hasn't been the hardest day's labor, but what's the point if she's grown up afraid to get her hands dirty?

I wash off the worst of the day at the water pump, cool ground water spilling from its red spout, and scuff across the gravel drive to the house.

It's still.

The window unit sits silent.

As I get closer, I can see all the doors are open and a breeze slams a scent against me, sweet and tangy. All I can think is that I haven't eaten since dawn.

Inside the mudroom, the sweet smell swirls in the air, but there is an undertone of something more. I leave my caked boots on the tray and make for the shower, and hope to heaven she intends some of that for me.

Down the hall, she's just coming out of the shower. A threadbare towel wrapped around her, taut across her chest, the soft swell of her breasts pushed near flat beneath. Everything about her is soft. I find it both maddening and...curious.

The women I've been with were either the tough as nails kind from standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of me every day, or they were the mostly fake ones who'd spot me in a bar and want to save a horse.

"Oh!" She jumps and holds the towel impossibly tighter. "Cullen…I…I didn't hear you come in."

I shrug and try to put my mind to anything but imaging what it would be like to hold something so soft.

She frowns as she brushes past, and I enter the bathroom. "Dinner will be on the table when you're done in there," she says and I hear the door to my old room shut.

(BPOV)

He is without a doubt, bar none, the most infuriating man on the planet. If I didn't need his help so desperately, I'd send his ass packing. Right after I took a picture of it.

How long has he been here? Four days? Four days and not a word out of him! The most I get from him is a condescending look now and again, as he lights yet another cigarette. As if I should have any idea what I'm doing. As if I even want to.

Yesterday, just when I'd begun to consider that he was, perhaps, mute – a fact that Billy should've included in his letter – I'd heard Cullen outside, clicking his tongue and talking to the damned horse.

And now, he's looking at me, staring at me in the hall, as if someone who looks like him has never seen a woman in a towel before. Well, probably not a woman like me, I'm a few years down the line. Caution: Contents may have shifted during flight.

No doubt he has his pick of young girls, toned bodies, nubile and pert. That's the way, now isn't it? Strong, hard and lean seeks same. Not that it mattered. Not that I wanted him to want me. Not at all.

Ugh, stupid hormones.

I fling open my closet door and realize anything I want to wear is out on the line. I throw on an impractical long, white cotton dress – it will surely drag in the dirt - and head out to bring the wash down. It's a major inconvenience to dry things this way, but the days are so hot that running the dryer makes the house just that much more unbearable. There's no way one little window air conditioner could keep up with that, coupled with a blazing oven baking things for market tomorrow.

Even outside, I can hear the old pipes creak and moan with the water travelling down the pipes to the shower. The sun is low on the horizon, the sky like watercolor paint from melting popsicles.

Before I even take down the first garment, sweat has formed on my back. My back is killing me from hours rolling out dough, and canning. I twist and stretch. I'm desperate to make enough to get by, to self sustain, not to touch the paltry funds still left to the estate. The farm needs more cattle, more seeds, more…everything if it's going to survive.

(EPOV)

I don't realize my fingers have dug into the window frame until a splinter pierces a knuckle.

She's at the clothesline. I saw her there when I was pulling on a clean pair of jeans. The setting sun is low beyond her, its rays shine through the thin material of her white dress.

It's like nothing on her.

Every movement, every bend, is silhouetted by the light. Her thighs look longer than seems possible for such a small person. Where her waist and hips meet, curves so smoothly, I notice my hands move up to mime holding her there.

Well, this is damned inconvenient.

I can hear her setting the table when I step out of my second shower a few minutes later.

"Cullen," she says, and removes some sort of casserole from the oven. The white dress is mercifully gone and she now wears shorts and a blue shirt. On the table are dinner rolls and, if I'm not mistaken, cinnamon rolls. I notice for the first time that the counters are lined with packages of rolls, pies, and canned jellies.

I am a horse's ass.

She's been in here, in this inferno, baking and rolling, and pounding out enough dough to feed an army. All, I suppose, to make sure there is some income, all to make it work, all on survival instinct.

I wait for her to sit down and then I pull my chair out. She watches her own fingers unfold the napkin in her lap, and continues to keep her eyes on her plate. Her cheeks are flush, whether from the heat or frustration I do not know.

We reach for the serving spoon at the same time. She pulls back like I might burn her.

I put the first huge scoop on her plate.

(BPOV)

Okay, I do not understand this disturbing, beautiful man.

Fully intent on laying down the law about communicating with me, I spread my napkin in my lap. The thoughts I have to collect on the subject are few. I acknowledge that I do not know about the nuts and bolts of the operation, but I do have plans and research. I'm waiting on permits to use the back acreage as a wind farm. The organic certification process is intense but under way.

But none of this works if we…the farm can't survive the short term. I'd never been in a position to admit someone else knows better than me at anything, but it's my understanding that, at this, he does…and he's not giving me anything to work with.

I reach for the spoon and notice him looking directly at me, for what might be the first time. I expect to find the same aloof judgment, like all the previous sideways glances he's thrown at me. I expect to feed the fire of anger that threatens to blaze. What I don't expect is to find him gauging me, a near light in his weathered eyes.

Before I can process the moment, he's piled my plate with enough food that, if I choke it all down, we can probably sell me at market.

"Cullen," I say, and watch him spoon food onto his own plate. The tendons in his arms dance with each scoop. "Things need to change." I swallow hard. "Tomorrow, I'll be at the Farmer's Market all morning. After that, we should sit down and go over what you think we can afford at the yards, what we need to prepare the fields."

I straighten my silverware and notice that the butter is ready to melt right off the dish.

"If you're not comfortable talking with me, maybe just write a list. But, I'll need you to come with me to the Sale Barn."

He's still listening, fork in hand. He's got to be starving. He never comes up to the house for lunch. Suddenly, I wonder if I've been remiss.

"Would you like it if I start bringing you lunch? I don't mind. It never occurred to me how you'd have to clean up just to head back out."

His gaze drops down to his plate and he gathers up what will be his first bite.

"Yes Ma'am."

His voice is a song. It is midnight velvet and the strum of an acoustic guitar.

I am done for.

(EPOV)

While she clears the dishes I notice the bookkeeping stacked up on a far corner of the table. There are permits and licenses, and forms for most everything I've ever thought might make a place successful.

_Organic._ _The old man would belly laugh at the idea._

But, the old man didn't know everything.

He'd sent me away. From her.

And now, when I thought I'd come back and save the land, I find she's here. And she's already laid the frame.

I open the door to put the leftovers into the fridge.

That's when I see them.

Sandwiches and devilled eggs and salted tomato slices wrapped up, sitting in the back. There's another plate of similar food underneath.

She's been making me lunch and I've been too stubborn to come up here and get it.

I take the plate out and smooth down the peeling cellophane like gift wrap. The thin plastic catches on my cracked skin, tearing down the plate.

"Are you okay?" I hear her behind me, her voice smaller than usual for some reason, almost a whisper. I'm still staring at this plate with its simple fare, and wondering what more I've misjudged.

"Cullen? Are you still hungry?"

_No._ I shake my head. Of course, it would seem that way, the way I'm coveting this plate of food.

(BPOV)

He's holding one of the lunches he never eats up tight to his shirt and trying to make the wrap stick, but his fingers keep catching. They keep catching because the skin looks as though it has to be on the verge of splitting in twain.

"Oh my God, your hands," I grab his hand in mine and press on the split fingertips, willing them to knit back together. _How is he not bleeding?_

The next thing I realize, I'm pulling him down the hall to take care of him. I grab a foot and heel paste from my dresser and begin to work it into the cracks and splits. They're already incredibly clean; I'm actually impressed. I look up and his face is what I'd call bemused.

"Is something funny here? Were you going to wait until a finger fell off before you did something about it?"

He shakes his head softly, a smile pulling at one corner. I keep working more and more lotion into the crevices of his long fingers, on the hand I hold, until it can't possible absorb any more. I release his hand and he's already offered the other one, palm up. Suddenly, I can't keep a memory safely tucked away.

_"Shh! Come on Bella. Come on!" The tall boy, breathing adventure, beckoned me with an open hand to pop the screen and crawl out into the night. "They won't be there for long."_

_I slid on my Keds under my nightgown and he helped pull me through the window._

_I could barely keep up. Surely, he was not running at full clip but he held my hand tightly and kept me at his side._

_We reached the small thicket and then its inner clearing. The grass was low, the wildflowers high. Moonlight filtered through the woven tree canopy, forming shadows on the floor. Though it should've been far too late for them to be out, lighting bugs pulsed and hovered._

_"Where?" I whispered._

_He placed a single, long finger over his lips and pulled me to a downed log. We crouched and he lifted a broken section of bark to reveal the farm's mouser nursing her four striped kittens, and one tiny, eyes-welded shut, baby rabbit; a kitten in his own right. Though not family he was utterly at home._

_We watched in silence for an untold time, until he gently placed the bark back in place._

_Then, I was caught up in the boy, the man. What was he? Four…five years older than my sixteen. I should've been scared. But, this was him. We'd spent the past several summers together. Gramma said he was like a son. But he had never been my brother._

_His palm was outstretched again, offering to help me up by the one hand he hadn't been holding the whole time. The planes of his face were highlighted with the pulsating lights, his disheveled hair whipped by the breeze. I placed my palm on his and he pulled me up. It was too fast and I stumbled against him, the thin cotton of our clothes barely separating us._

_"Bella, I…"_

_And his lips were on mine._

_My first impulse, for the briefest of moments, was that I thought I should be marking this momentous occasion, committing to memory my first real kiss._

_But then, his hand moved up within my tangled hair. The warm pad of his thumb pressed softly along my jaw, angling me, opening me. All thought left my head._

_All that remained in the night was the lucifrase-laced magic of fireflies, and the gentle force of his lips on mine._

_I'd forgotten how to breathe. The smooth skin of his lips played along mine. His rough hands travelled deeper within my hair, wrapping it around his musician's fingers. I fought back a moan bubbling in my lungs._

_And then I tasted his tongue._

_Silk and mottled ridges, honey and an unnamed something that would forever be him. I drew myself up on my toes, wanting to be even, wanting to be his equal, wanting to be…his._

_I closed my arms around his neck. With a flat hand against the small of my back, he pressed me to his chest. Air rushed past my face and I felt as if he was breathing me in. My knees failed. He held me closer and we began to lower to the wet grass._

_On the edge of the clearing, branches snapped. Then men shouted. A gun cocked._

_He held me tighter, turning my face to his chest, shielding me from the many sets of eyes. I noticed my nightgown and felt exposed for the first time._

_I heard a man spit then clear his throat._

"_Please." His voice echoed in his chest. "Please, it's not what you think."_

_The other men gave dismissive laughs. "Get out, while the gettin's good."_

"_Bella, I have to go."_

"_No, don't. Please Edward."_

"Edward." I hear my voice resonate in the bedroom.

(EPOV)

Not now.

Not like this.

Not in her room with her taking care of me, when all I've ever wanted is to take care of her.

Not when I've been so cold.

"Edward, please."

Her troubled eyes lock onto mine and she reaches for my hand. I don't have the will to keep it from her, to keep anything from her.

I think she's going to rub the same salve onto it, but she bends it to her face and presses her cheek to my palm. My whole being hums at the contact. She's so soft, the softest thing I've ever known.

I know I must be gaping at her, but she's unphased. She purrs into my skin and rubs her face within my leathered hand.

I've often wondered if she remembered that night, our night, in the clearing. It had never occurred to me that she'd forget me completely. I'd been coming to grips with that for days. Now, it seems, without reason.

She runs her lips up past my wrist and along my arm. She traces the blue veins. Half kiss, half taste. When she reaches my rolled sleeve, she looks up and I recall why I cared about this land in the first place. It's a part of her, the part of her I shared. The tether to whatever meaning my life may hold.

She smiles and I can see the best of me reflected in her bright eyes.

"Bella…"

Those same eyes that danced with light a moment ago shift, waves surge in their depths.

I don't know when she grabbed my shirt, but if there were buttons instead of snaps the floor would be littered with broken half circles. She pulls it open and free of my jeans. She's tugging and pulling and pushing me to her bed and it's all I can do not to step on her little feet as they move near mine. My knees hit the mattress and I fall back to sit on the bed.

She straddles me and wraps her hands around my chest, cocooned between my ribs and loose shirt. She's struggling to balance and pull off her own shirt, rubbing herself on my lap in the process.

_Holy shit… should we do this right now…do I want it to happen like this?_

She tears her shirt over her head, pushing her breasts into me. Her hot center rubs against the already painful erection which scratches against my jeans.

_Um, yeah. I sure do._

And I know, in the future, there will be more times for tender. There will be nights for exploring and days memorizing and, I think my heart momentarily stops at the thought, hot afternoons in the hay loft for come-what-may. But this? This moment, this right here is about recollection and claim.

_Mine._

I lift her head and weave my fingers within her hair. I don't know who moves first, or if we move together, but we are kissing and it's everything I remember of her every day.

The rest of our clothes hit the floor. She pushes me back on the bed and I waste a second wondering if her skin or the silk comforter feels smoother.

She hovers over me, her hair a curtain, a shelter from anything but us. _Oh, God. She's everything I remembered, but more, better._

And I can't understand how I lived between then and now.

I run my hands along her sides, across her ribs, and cup her breasts. Real. Everything about her is genuine and real, and perfect. She moves over and runs her tongue along my jaw.

Then she lowers herself onto me.

I grunt, push forward and hold her waist like I'd mimed earlier. She moves and slides and though the air outside is hot, it's nothing compared to her. Inside her. We pull apart, slowly, and nothing feels the same, it's a different, departing kind of pull. I lean up and claim her lips.

She arches back and I stretch to meet her again. We kiss as deep and full as ever. I cup her face between my hands. Another move and a moan escapes her. I pull back and the way her flesh grips my length, it sears, it brands, it claims. I sigh, a lament for whenever I'm not deep within her.

My hips go forward and pound against her again and again. Her chin drops down and near silent words pass across her lips. I smile, fully realizing for the first time, this is happening. She nods soundlessly, matching the rhythm I've set pumping inside her.

"Edward," she murmurs, looking down at my face. "Ung, is this how…you want me?"

I want to give her more, if that's what she wants; I want her, however she will give herself to me. We slide slowly, savoring, and I swirl my tongue around her nipple, drawing it deep into my mouth, across my tongue. She moves against me, rocking at my base, pulling me deeper.

I can feel my legs begin to shake as I border on desperation. I know we need more. My fingers play across the flesh of her thighs. When we pull apart next, I bend my knees behind her, like the back of a chair for leverage. She braces against my thighs and finds a way to make me slip further in.

"Oh fuck Bella." My eyes roll back in my head.

She bucks against me and I feel her begin to clench. I hold her tighter still and grind against her.

"Oh, please…please..." Her voice is soft and low. She's lost her rhythm, but I keep pounding into her. She widens her legs and I really hadn't realized there was any of me left but I feel the difference, the grip and heat where I've never felt it before.

Her limbs begin to shake over mine and she writhes on top of me as she begins to come apart. I cry out and I let myself follow.

"Bella!"

She stills above me and I can feel my blood pounding.

"We can do this. I never wanted to leave. I never want to leave." My voice borders on choke.

She kisses my chin then flattens herself against me. "Then don't."


	2. Chapter 2 Nothing to See Here Folks

A/N: A huge "Thank You" to everyone who read/reviewed/asked for more of the original one-shot of this story!

Based upon what everyone asked for, here's what going to happen:

A little bit more of what it was like when Bella arrived on the farm, before hiring Edward

What Edward was doing before she hired him

More details in the tension between B&E before she remembers him

Learn about their pasts

Progress the story after she recognizes him/work to save the farm together

I have plans for all this (& more) but I will need to change one thing about the o/s: It will be slightly longer than 4 days between when Bella hires Edward & when she lets herself remember him. Not forever longer. The story isn't going to end where the o/s did.

End result: We're treating the o/s as a weird kind of prologue. A little story will take place before it. Some will expand upon what is in it. More will happen after.

This will be an alternating BPOV & EPOV story. B is up first.

Thanks again for letting me know you want this story made!

Oh, everything that happens later in this chapter might make more sense if you've recently read the o/s. Just a suggestion.

UU ~~ UU

Chapter 2 – **Nothing to See Here Folks**

2 days before start of Prologue

BPOV

When ancient cities became buried under sand and soil, this must be how it sneaked up on them.

I can't imagine finding anything interesting here.

Slow moving and dust coated. Summer sun bakes it all in place. Dull seeps into the split paint siding, the spiderwebbed sidewalk cracks. Forgotten, fallow memories.

Old brick streets intersected with hot pavement. Country roads. Grey gravel.

Each ping and ding on the undercarriage of my car hits as if pelting the tense muscles of my back. A percussive hum. I grit my teeth. The car lease is up in a couple of weeks. Surely a few more trips down this gravel road won't affect anything.

The single venture down this road earlier today was the only one I've ever, personally, driven. When I left last, I was too young to drive.

A recurring theme of my youth. Too young for anything.

There's a niggling there. I think of kittens. I'm not sure why.

Being practically raised by my grandparents had only emphasized my youth.

The road, the farm, the life. I left it all behind. I changed.

I made myself.

Nothing has changed here. Only aged.

The moms and pops don't run their shops; they stay home and watch Wheel.

Apart from what might be a new stop light at the corner of sixth and main, everything seems exactly the same. As if the entire town awaits its future glory as an archeologist's life-time find. I shudder to think this might be labeled as a typical town of our time.

Or…maybe it is.

Maybe most towns and townsfolk live like this, but there are no film crews or photographers or news crews capturing the slow sunset, the front porch swings, the auctions, the craft shows.

I drive to the hospital. No injury. It's the only place in town where I can get a signal on my phone.

I need a new plan.

The papers that the executor left on the kitchen table need notarized. They're more in order than the entire farm.

"Weber." The notary I'm calling answers with this single word. Music pounds in the background so loudly it distorts his voice.

"Hello, Mr. Weber. This is Bella. We spoke on Tuesday regarding your services and you suggested I call you at this time. I've seen the property and am in town now. It would be best for me to finalize all the testacy matters without delay. Are you available now?" 

"Well, now don't that beat all? Here already?" He shouts over the music. "Sure, sure. You're welcome to come on in to the bar now, but I won't really be able to read anything over until after I close down for the night."

I imagine myself weaving through a crowded country bar in this navy suit and heels. I agree to meet at closing time, 2am.

Four hours to kill.

It's dark now. I have no desire to go back out to the farm. Alone.

I drive around town. Repeatedly. I bask in the car's air conditioning; it's so different than the sultry farmhouse.

I pull into the near empty bar parking lot. Gravel. It digs into the leather of my pumps.

A short man slouches near a truck, emptying himself. I make my way inside.

I didn't expect to see much here, so there's no room for disappointment. So, to see this beauty here among the vice and vile, the boors and more, is startling.

But, it's here nonetheless. As am I.

I want to touch it, but I won't.

Underneath, glory screams.

The barren bar is covered in wet rings, soggy coasters, empty highballs. Its surface all deep mahogany and serpentine marble and reflected in an ancient beveled mirror. It seems to stretch on forever into the darkness. Such finery has no current business in this burg; it's a relic of a prosperous era, a vestige of the past carried over, clinging on for today.

The best of the past demeaned, debased and unappreciated. It doesn't belong here.

Neither do I.

Despite the late hour, the fume of booze and the cumulous of smoke linger in the air, dank and dark. My pumps crunch on floor grit.

The elusive proprietor, Mr. Weber, is nowhere to be seen.

The hollow clank of bottles in a concealed portion of the main floor draws my attention.

In the far corner, past a pale hanging tarp curtain and a backlit mechanical bull, the shadow of a female stretches out from a lit doorway, spreading across the floor and onto a pine wall coated in ornate Budweiser mirrors and other old brewing company placards. The shadow floats between unseen, darkened tables and gathers up what sounds to be empty longnecks and cans into a bag.

I'm about to go ask her if she knows where I can find Weber - I don't have anything else to do but I don't really want to hang out here at this late hour – when a second, decidedly masculine, shadow appears framed in the same doorway.

I still. I don't hear any sounds, but she appears to be aware of his presence nonetheless.

She turns to him briefly before resuming her task – this time opting to bend at the waist and stretch languidly to gather nearby bottles.

The man must take note, the brim of his cowboy hat tilting as he watches her repeated display.

His shadow arm bridges the small space separating them, runs slowly down the expanse of her bent back, between her shoulder blades, marking a thin line down her spine. It's beyond erotic…I want…no…I do feel as though he's touching me.

The first human sound, a slow moan, resounds from her and she arches back into his touch.

I realize I've halted to point of holding my breath only when I hear Mr. Weber's vaguely familiar voice behind me. "Ms. Swan?"

I blanch; I haven't used that name in years. I left it behind when I left this town. I'd opted to go by my mother's maiden name, choosing it as it seemed as good as any other…just so long as it was other…other than that farm than bore the name. The farm, the land that has managed to drag me back here again.

My odd, tenuous kinship with the shadows is broken. I blink away my surprise at the assumption that I am still a Swan because I've inherited the farm, then watch my hand shake Weber's.

The portly Weber leads me past his coolers and kegs to the office that is tucked away between a mop closet and clustered shelving area. A stack of yellowing porn magazines catches my eye. _Hustler. Game._

The din and clink of bottles fades into the night. His office radiates stale and must, like he's only in there to pretend to balance the books, otherwise he's out mingling with his people, his clients, his brethren.

"Sorry," Weber begins, and waddles to his desk."Everything's all messed up being Lauren's last night and all." He says this name as if I should know to whom he's referring. "She'll be hard to replace." He looks strangely wistful for a moment then clears his throat. "Must admit, I was surprised when you called. So, ol' Charlie's seed's come home to roost, now?" He's leaning back in his chair, its front legs probably six inches off the ground behind the cluttered desk.

I shrug. This is not what I've come here for, this bonding. This is not my home. I refuse. Until yesterday, I've not thought of this area as home, not even been in this state, when it would be legal for me to put a toe in a bar.

The papers he needs are burning inside my shoulder bag. I pull them out and hand them over a bit quicker than intended. Weber doesn't seem to notice - or be bothered by - my anxiousness. I want to leave; more accurately, I do not want to be here. Unexpectedly, my mind jumps to the shadows I've just left behind.

Weber flips through most of the pages, gets out his notary stamp and signs away. I'm still reeling that he's a notary public, the only notary, in town. The other one moved away after a divorce, so I'm told. I want to file these papers first thing tomorrow, not wait until Weber wakes up at the crack of noon.

"Pert-near everything seems to be in order now," he says, handing the wad of papers back. "So, you're gonna try and make a go if it, huh? I reckon you'll be setting up the usual weekend Squirrel and Bart account for your boys, right? It's a tradition."

It's barely a question and most of it makes no sense to me.

I straighten in the rickety plastic chair and smooth my pencil skirt, its navy linen catches on the slick of my hosiery. I realize my wardrobe doesn't jive with a 2am meeting in the local… watering hole.

A moment later, I'm looking Weber directly in the eye.

"You must pardon me, Mr. Weber, as I'm neither familiar with the local vernacular nor have any point of reference for your customs. I can assure you, however, that I do have every intention of, as you put it, making 'a go of it.' Further, I haven't any 'boys.'" Surely he knows this. That I've chosen to be single and childless. Everyone here seems to know everything about everyone. There was actually the cliché neighbor who had dropped by with rhubarb pie before I'd even unloaded my second box yesterday. _Rhubarb!_ Like the first drop on a rollercoaster, my stomach dips at the memory_._

Weber stares, then guffaws. "You were a young sprout when you headed out, now weren't ya?" He slaps his thick thigh as if this is some stellar comic material he's unearthed. I can't even imagine my face.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, I leave Weber's office alone with the contact info for one Billy Black, local feed store owner and the main go-to guy for hiring ranch and farm hands, cow_boys_. Also, I seem to have already christened a squirrely bite account, or whatever it was, for the as yet non-existent workers to use when they come to the "traditional" weekly standing reservation at the bar.

_Tradition. Ha. Tradition had done nothing for the farm. Traditionally, it's a cash drain, a tax write-off at best._

Near the vintage porn, I laugh aloud at the ideas of needing a reservation and the hiring of workers in the plural. The farm is emaciated, if such a thing could be.

The quiet scuff of my pumps against the sandy bar floor gradually fades to the background, overcome by a low rhythmic whirling and thump. My pace slows. Around the corner of the bar, I see the shadows, charcoal but clear, cast on the curtain tarp.

The sounds continue. _Whirl. Clink. _

_Thump. Hum. _

The mechanical bull, undulate and unhurried, slowly tosses the entwined pair of shadows.

The female is in front and leaning her back flush against his chest, face turned into his and her arms woven back and around the male's arms and pulling the hair that she can reach under the back of his now downturned hat.

He's surrounding her, engulfing her.

Even through the screen I can tell his muscles clench and flex at the right moments, keeping them anchored to the rolling machine. On a downturn, they pitch forward. The machine slowly bucks to the side and he moves his hand to reveal the clear outline of her naked breast. _Oh my God…is she? Are they…?_

The answer arrives before I finish the question. She moans on a down thrust and breaks away from their kiss. He moves to hold her around the waist and angles her hips. Her round breasts brush against the saddle.

_Thump._

_Hum._

"Hmmm…Yes…you like that, Ren."

His voice in low, throaty.

A velvet hiss.

My eyes widen as it all resonates within me…this man's voice, the scene playing out in front of me. My hand braces against the cool marble bar.

The machine rocks them.

_Thump._

They rock themselves in counterpoint.

_Whirl. Thump._

"Lean forward, hold the saddle horn. I want deep in you…like that Ren…mmm, fuuuuck yeah…you should see this, Baby. You should see how good you look wrapped around me."

A flutter of movement and I can tell he's still wearing a shirt. It appears to be hanging wide open.

Moaning and competing with the bull, she bucks forward and attempts to slam herself back into him on the next roll.

The pair move… and moan… and slide.

The bull slows and dips low, grinding to a near halt. Her whimpers become prominent as the engine winds down.

I will myself to leave, to take the few steps toward the door. The fight to stay is strong. None of this is mine to see; I'm no voyeur. Well, not before. Only this. Everything in this town is uncomfortable…except this. Their pairing, their coupling rivets me, vibrates in my very core.

After a few feet forward, my peripheral catches their true forms beyond the tarp. My eyes flutter closed and I mentally curse this new weakness as I crane to glean more…just more. They are facing away and most of what I can see is the man's black shirt covered back - fabric flowing like a robe or a cape – black jeans and what appears to be a very nice suede hat. This assessment, "nice," this adjective I've assigned, surprises me. A cowboy…a hat… so foreign from my typical turn-ons.

His long, low cursing growl swells as the bull freezes with his still jeans-clad legs clamp down and hold them at the summit of the metal beast. As he runs his palms around her sides, the loosed fabric of his open shirt billows and reveals bunched denim and a chiseled hip. His skin is near iridescent under the stage lights. I notice for the first time the leather strap of belt jutting out from his open jeans.

He's murmuring near her ear now; all I can make out is cadent beats. Her bare arm stretches to the thin ribbon band of his hat and retrieves a silver coin nestled there. She giggles and tilts, exposing her utter nakedness in contrast to him. It's striking, stark.

Lurching to life, the bull begins again, they resume, resume the sliding thrusts that never had truly stopped. She twines her bare, toned legs around his jeans, hooks her heels around leather boots.

With the increased sounds of the motor covering my scrapes on the dirty floor, I continue to the door. Behind me, their voices follow.

"Hmm, fuck Ren… may not let you move to Springfield… should've done… this…before."

A building and swirling moan punctuates the air. I involuntarily turn around, half-in and half-out of the exit. The tangled forms, again cast silhouettes on the shade, have melded into one.

She's wearing the hat now and her fingers are twisted back into his havoc of hair.

His fingers dig into her ample breasts, anchoring them, as he pounds up into her, shaming the bull's speed.

My knees are near liquid.

Her cries are fierce and long. Then, near breathless, she breaks out, "You should've spoken to me before."

He throws his head back from her neck, breaks what appears to be suction…and growls, deep, guttural, thick.

"Is. This. What. You. Wanted. To. Talk. About?"

Each word is punctuated with the impact of skin on skin. He grabs between her legs and thrusts into her fully from behind.

He throws his head back, his sharp jawline is piercing.

I praise the distance between us.

I want to touch him, but I won't.

I know if I were nearer, I'd be unable to stop. I'd have to trace his lines, preserve them in my skin.

"You won't feel this again….Remember me…Tell me how much you'll miss me." His voice is a rasp.

Her reply is lost as sanity finally reins me in and I ride it into the wide open night, into a space and place that suddenly doesn't seem so empty.

_Well, that's not something you see every day._

UU ~~ UU

A/N: Well… how was that?

Please, please tell me you know who the bull rider is…


End file.
